


In the Dark

by Joodiff



Series: All Joodiff's Adult WtD Fic [18]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: Pretending to be asleep leads to much more exciting activities...Adult content. Over 18s only, please.





	

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 

**In the Dark**

by Joodiff

* * *

She doesn’t really know why she does it; it’s just a silly whim. Completely spontaneous, with no planning or nefarious intent. Whatever the cause, when the door to the _en suite_ bathroom opens, Grace closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep. Her breathing is already slow and regular, and she catches herself concentrating hard to keep it that way. Why, she’s still not altogether sure. Perhaps she’s just curious, wants to know what his reaction will be. This sort of shared mundane but intimate moment is still so new that she finds she can’t accurately predict what Boyd will do when he discovers that she is – or at least _appears_ to be – fast asleep. Whether he will irritably mutter and growl to himself, whether he will make far more noise than is necessary getting into bed in the hope of ‘unintentionally’ rousing her, or whether he will simply reach out and shake her. It’s absolutely unintentional, this idle, childish experiment, but she is, after all, a psychologist, a student of human behaviour, and the results, whatever they are, will doubtless be both interesting and illuminating.

He doesn’t make very much noise, moving around his softly-lit bedroom, and that alone surprises her. Eyes still tightly closed, she relies on hearing alone to track his progress as he does whatever it is he needs to do, then finally pads soft-footed towards the bed. He can, of course, move extremely quietly when he wants to, occasionally ghosting up behind unsuspecting subordinates to suddenly bark orders at them, a trick that never fails to elicit a loud and startled reaction from the victim or victims concerned, but generally his footsteps are rapid and sure, designed to announce his impending presence. Not tonight. Grace doesn’t detect any deliberate measure of stealth, any hint that he’s attempting to creep up on her. He’s just not causing any unnecessary disturbance. Uncharacteristic.

The wide, comfortable mattress dips under his weight, but not excessively so. Not enough to cause her to stir if she really was dozing. Same with the careful movement of the bedcovers. Clearly, he has read her continued stillness and silence as somnolence, and instead of deliberately trying to wake her by what he could legitimately attempt to claim was accident, he’s being far more gallant and accommodating than she would ever have expected. Even his voice, when he speaks, is quiet. Not a whisper, by any means, but soft and low as he tries a hushed, “Grace…?”

She should stop pretending. She knows she should. It’s not fair to continue to test him in such a pointless, underhand manner, not now it’s become far from an innocent, unplanned thing, a momentary impulse. A sigh, a yawn and a slight stretch would be enough to end the subterfuge, but she’s a little too fascinated now, a little too curious to find out what he will do next – whether he will quietly leave her to her dreams, or make an effort to wake her. It’s his own fault in a way, she reasons. His own fault for still being so infuriatingly unpredictable, despite how incredibly well she’s come to know him. Sometimes, yes, she seems to know what he will do long before anyone else has even the slightest inkling, but that’s more about reading and understanding the circumstances that make him behave in a particular way. Understanding what will trigger his quick, fierce temper, what will instantly appeal to the compassionate, protective side of his character. What will intrigue him, what will vex him, what will attract or repel him. At work it’s… well, if not exactly easy, then at least frequently possible to make an educated guess at his behaviour. At home…

He’s a very different man at home. Her home, his home, it doesn’t matter. Take the heavy mantle of responsibility from Peter Boyd’s shoulders, and he visibly becomes a gentler, quieter, and much more equable man. The dichotomy fascinates Grace – always has, of course, but never more so than in the last few weeks when the chance to study the interesting phenomenon in depth has become a more-or-less daily treat. He remains largely unpredictable, though, wherever he is, whatever he’s doing. Far more reckless and likely to act on sudden impulse than she is – current situation notwithstanding.

His weight shifts, rocking her gently for a moment, and a quiet click precedes a sudden darkness that she’s aware of even with her eyes closed. A careful squint confirms that he’s switched off the bedside lamp, that the only light in the room is now provided by the few tiny external slivers that manage to penetrate the tiny gaps between the heavily-lined curtains that block out most of the night. Opening her eyes fully, Grace contemplates her next move. Should she feign waking and then engage with him, or continue to let him think she’s beaten him to slumber and allow him to settle? The answer is nowhere near as obvious as it should be.

He works too hard. She’s always known it. They _all_ work too hard, the whole damn team, of course, but no-one, not even Eve Lockhart or her predecessors, routinely puts in the stupidly high number of hours every week that Boyd does. It’s more than leading by example, it’s commitment and dedication and possibly just the tiniest touch of madness. The latter, at least, her own, not entirely textbook, judgement. Yes, he works far too hard, and with every long, hard year that passes, the inevitable toll it takes on him becomes just a little bit greater. He doesn’t bounce back from things quite as quickly and energetically as he used to, doesn’t automatically throw himself headlong into new investigations at such a furious pace anymore, and Grace doubts she’s the only one – inside or outside of the CCU – who’s noticed.

She should let him sleep. If they start talking – or doing anything else – the time will slip away before they know it, and suddenly it’ll be long after midnight with far too few hours left before the bedside clock starts to shrill its loud morning alarm.

Boyd moves again, easing up against her back, careful and far from predatory. Warm and solid, wonderfully real. The arm that curves around her waist is gentle, cautious, and the lips that brush lightly against her neck are soft and undemanding. This time his deep voice is barely a murmur. “Goodnight, Grace.”

She’s loved him for years, in good times and bad, but she fell _in_ love with him somewhere between the morphine and the tears, in the frightening, lonely place after Linda Cummings when she so desperately needed somebody, _anybody_ , to tell her the nightmare would eventually end and everything would be all right. Fell in love with him in the place where she reached out, and he was always there, ready to soothe or bully or say nothing at all. Whatever she needed, whenever she needed it. The man who looked down into the terrifying abyss where Nietzsche’s monsters dwell and offered a deadly deal to one of the most beautiful and lethal. The man who willingly offered to trade his life for hers. The man she impulsively kissed in the tainted city moonlight and then took wordlessly to her bed, startling them both.

She can feel him relaxing, feel the heaviness creeping into his body as his breathing slows.

A holiday. That’s what Boyd needs. What they both need, if she’s honest. Not just a long weekend snatched somewhere within quick and easy driving distance of London, either, but a proper break somewhere where no-one’s ever heard of the Metropolitan Police, or its notorious Cold Case Unit. Somewhere where they can just unwind together with no lurking external worries or pressures to creep up on them. Somewhere warm and sunny, Grace thinks, toying with the idea. A paradise place of sun, sea, and sand. And sex, too. Yes. Most definitely. Though they don’t have to leave London for that, and if she was to…

No. Let him sleep.

She can’t. Not yet.

She sighs, moves just a fraction, enough to signal returning consciousness. “Peter…?”

“I knew you were shamming,” he says, tone soft and indulgent.

She doubts he’s lying. His senses are sharp, his instincts even sharper. And he’s a very good detective. Possibly the best she’s ever had the good fortune to work with. Smiling into the darkness, Grace asks, “How?”

“Just did.” A verbal shrug. To him, it’s obviously unimportant. “Warm enough?”

“Yes,” she confirms, hoping it will be enough to reassure him. He worries about her, now more than ever. She can’t find it in her heart to blame him, not after everything they’ve both been through. She wonders, though, how he imagines she could possibly feel cold, buried as she is beneath the luxurious covers in a warm cocoon that’s bolstered by his relentless body heat. Blissful as winter begins to bite, but when the summer comes… Not the time to be thinking that far ahead. Forget the past, ignore the future and concentrate on embracing the present.

Soap. Soap and sandalwood. He’s not long out of the shower. A neutral, if not completely natural, scent. No cologne, no musk. She likes both, so tightly entwined are they with all her memories of him both old and new. Sharp spice in the morning, subtle notes of something more elemental breaking through by the evening. Distinctive. Evocative.

“I love you,” she murmurs, as her eyes adjust to the dark and she begins to see shapes and shadows where there were none.

Boyd kisses her neck again, still gentle, but with more resolve. “Good.”

It doesn’t pique her, his laconic reply, for she knows it’s not as flippant as it sounds. He doesn’t give the traditional response simply because those three infamous words mean far too much to him. Too much to mindlessly parrot back just to fulfil expectations. He will – he _does_ – say them, and regularly, but in his own time and on his own terms. It’s something to celebrate and respect, that stubborn singularity, not something to be irked by. Something Grace would never have fully understood in her younger days for all her considerable empathy and insight.

She covers his hand with hers, pale and ghostly in the unlit room. Fascinated for a moment, she fidgets him into a direct palm-to-palm comparison, her slender fingers coming up short against his much thicker, longer digits. Big hands, far, far larger than hers. Strong. Dextrous, too. Nimble when they play over her skin, clever when they search out and exploit all the places that make her shiver and bite her lower lip.

She wants him, the realisation not a surprise. A warm flush of slowly-dawning arousal makes her press back against him, the age-old invitation never clearer. The action causes a soft growl, something a long, long way from displeasure, and an answering nudge of his hips in acknowledgement. He reclaims his hand, finds her hip, and his palm lingers there for a moment, his lips returning to her neck. Grace arches, almost purrs. It was never a given, their instinctive ability to delight each other. Wouldn’t really have mattered, she thinks, if they hadn’t ultimately proved to be so well-attuned physically, not given everything else that exists between them, but perhaps they both were well overdue a lucky break, because from the first moment, the very first touch…

Boyd’s hand moves again, gliding down over the silky material of her thin nightdress, hip to thigh until he finds bare skin, and that, too, precipitates a throaty growl of approval from behind her. One that sends a soft, trembling shiver up and down her spine, adds a delightful edge to her increasing need to touch and be touched.

Sex is not the sole prerogative of the young and beautiful. She wonders sometimes if the young and the beautiful themselves ever truly understand that. If they have any idea that the day will dawn when they, too, find themselves grateful for all the little things that they once took for granted. If they truly realise how valuable real passion is – and just how easily it can wither during the ruthless advance of age and time.

Of course they don’t. Why would they?

It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s happy, happier than she’s been for a long time, and she’s long past caring what anyone would think if they found out what she was doing – and just _who_ she was doing it with – in the very few uninterrupted hours she has to call her own. Like sex, love is not just for the young and the beautiful, either, and if she’s lucky enough to be thoroughly enjoying both at her age, well, whose damn business is it but hers… _theirs_?

“Grace…?”

His voice brings her back to herself, and she reaches behind her, sliding her arm under his, seeking his waist as she murmurs, “Sorry.”

“Time and place,” Boyd tells her without discernible ire.

He’s perceptive when he wants to be. Still, she has to inquire, “How did you know…?”

A quiet, amused snort. “Because I know _you_. You spend far too much time thinking about things that really don’t need thinking about.”

Grace can’t be bothered to argue the point. Besides, there’s some truth to his words. Sometimes she _does_ think too much, and right now… Well, why waste time thinking about what she could actually be doing?

Her idly searching fingers encounter an elasticated waistband, much of its stretch lost many, many washes ago. Soft, loose, jersey fabric. She can clearly picture the item of clothing in question – shapeless and well-worn pyjama trousers in an indefensible array of originally brightly-coloured stripes. Comfortable and warm, presumably, but completely devoid of erotic appeal. Not the sort of garment anyone would ever expect Boyd to even _possess_ , much-less actually _wear_ , she’s quite certain. She has definite plans for the mysterious and permanent disappearance of the baggy and still far-too stripy sartorial nightmare at the very first unobserved opportunity, however much Boyd may grumble at the discovery afterwards.

No fly-front, either. Doesn’t prevent ingress.

“Fuck’s sake, Grace,” is the immediate yelp of complaint as she locates and gently grasps her prize. “Cold-bloody-hands.”

“Warm heart,” she assures him with a smirk, not removing her hand. Cold extremities or not, her bold approach has the desired – palpable – effect on him, and as she deftly encourages his growing hardness Boyd resumes his own leisurely exploration, his hand slipping up under the hem of her nightdress, his fingers lightly tracing their way along her skin in an easy, practised manner which does nothing to alleviate the growing dull, pleasant ache centred low in Grace’s abdomen. Then his wandering hand changes direction and the only sensation she’s really able to concentrate on is the smooth, artful glide of his palm across her highly-sensitive stomach. He knows what she likes – learned that very quickly indeed – but what _really_ delights her is his willingness to improvise, to start with what works and somehow turn it into something that’s subtly new and different every time. He has a talent for it, no question, and as his fingers slip gently down between her thighs, she wonders if there will ever be a time when she won’t start to shiver with anticipation and need the moment he touches her.

“Slowly,” Boyd’s husky voice half-whispers close to her ear, making her realise just how fast she’s now working him in direct response to her own rapidly-spiralling desire. She doesn’t apologise, but she does relax her grip a fraction and reduce the speed and friction of her movements. He obviously approves, because he thrusts into her hand in rhythmic but unhurried counterpoint as his fingers continue to tease and circle, and apply just the right amount of pressure in exactly the right spots.

It’s good – _very_ good – but her shoulder’s starting to twinge, muscles starting to object to the continued uncomfortable, unnatural position of her arm. An unwelcome reminder of the limitations of human frailty at an extremely inopportune moment. Grimacing in the dark, she shifts slightly and mutters, “Sorry, I need to…”

He doesn’t complain as she retrieves her arm and experimentally flexes her shoulder. Instead, he changes position himself, and when she rolls over onto her back, she finds him propped up on an elbow, looking down at her. Just enough light to see him by, not enough to make out the finer details. She can’t tell if he’s glowering or grinning – either’s possible. Reaching up, Grace seeks with her fingers what her eyes can’t tell her. Finds the angular cheekbone, moves to the stubbly jaw, the short but soft bristles of his goatee beard, traces the tip of her finger across his lips, almost chuckling as he gives in to temptation and nips the questing digit as it explores. So intimate, so sensual, the way they touch each other, and yet still slow and easy. Who would ever believe that the big, fierce man with such a terrifying reputation for putting the fear of God into suspects and subordinates alike could be such a gentle, playful lover? No-one of her acquaintance, she’s sure.

“Why?” Boyd asks, the sudden unprompted question, and the reason for it, a mystery.

Grace doesn’t try to guess. No point. She may be a psychologist, but she’s definitely not a mind reader. Drawing an invisible line down his throat with her index finger, she inquires, “Why, what?”

It takes him a moment to reply. “Why me?”

Something else those who only know him as a belligerent, quick-tempered tyrant would struggle to understand. How much he doubts himself, how little he likes himself. How wounded and scarred he really is beneath the tough defensive armour of his brusque, abrasive personality. It doesn’t occur to Grace to tease, to make light of the question, but her answer is a simple, “Why not you?”

“ _Touché_.”

She stretches enough to enable her to place a soft, light kiss on his broad, smooth chest. “You’re a good man, Boyd. Even if you struggle to believe it.”

“If you say so,” he says, tone dry.

“I do,” Grace confirms, “so unless you really want to waste time arguing, I suggest you just shut up and kiss me.”

She can’t see his expression in the gloom, but she doesn’t need to. Not when his reply is a deliberately solemn, “I’m too tired to argue.”

Grinning to herself, she says, “Better go ahead and kiss me, then, hadn’t you?”

“Rather seems that way,” he agrees, and proceeds to do so. Gently, almost lazily at first, but with a growing determination and thoroughness that’s so enticing and exciting that Grace loses all interest in thinking about anything but the heady mix of sensation that draws her in, works its carnal magic on her, and then finally leaves her breathless and desperate for more when he draws back again. He speaks before she does, a rough edge of desire giving his voice an appealing throatiness. “Time to make good on that promise, Grace.”

“What promise?” she asks, her confusion quite genuine for a moment. And then she remembers. An ill-timed temper-tantrum narrowly avoided by a soft whisper in his ear. She almost chuckles. “Oh. _That_ promise.”

“ _That_ promise,” Boyd agrees, and although she can’t see it in the dark, she just knows he’s smirking the smug, infuriating, self-satisfied smirk that never fails to make her simultaneously want to slap and kiss him. “Of course, if you’re reneging on the deal…”

“Never,” she growls at him, her sudden stern defiance nothing but pretence. She squirms herself up into a semi-seated position and gives his shoulder a hefty push. He obediently collapses onto his back, hands immediately going behind his head. She’s tempted to stretch out and switch on the lamp on her side of the bed, but something about the shadowy darkness still feels strangely thrilling and illicit so she decides against it. She can see what she needs to see, after all. Still fierce, she adds, “I’m a woman of my word, Boyd.”

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” comes the amused reply, “and right now I’m thanking my lucky stars for it.”

“Shut up,” she orders, seizing the corner of the covers and swishing them back to expose the rest of his body. His torso is pale against the dark sheets, a very tempting target indeed, but further down Grace can just about make out the offensives lines of the very boldest of those damned stripes. Deciding to maintain the ascendance, she commands, “And take those damned things off.”

It’s just another game, of course, but not one she’s entirely sure he will play. Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd does not like being told what to do. By anyone. But – and it’s a big but – this time he has a considerable incentive to obey instructions. Grace waits, her silence cool and calculated, and a moment or two later he removes his hands from behind his head again. An upward shift of his hips, a nonchalant hooking of his thumbs, and the offending garment is slipping down his thighs to eventually be kicked away into the darkness. Her attention, however, is firmly elsewhere. Straining, she can see as much, or as well, as she needs to, but just enough is… well, enough. Maybe. Whether it’s the unabashed direction of her gaze, or simply his imagination running riot as he thinks about her hasty and ill-advised promise – the very best way at the time to get him to stay calm – she’s not sure, but whatever the reason, there’s no doubt about just how rapidly he’s becoming fully hard again.

“Close your eyes,” she says. A largely pointless instruction, given the lack of illumination in the room, but it’s all part of the game, and a matter of principle. Acquiescence will be rewarded, recalcitrance will not. Not here, not tonight. Games played for fun, for her pleasure and his; meaningless beyond the moment. His hands return to their former relaxed position behind his head, everything about his posture suggesting nonchalance. Everything except the way his cock jerks as her fingers close around it.

Hot. Hot and hard, the soft skin smooth over the steely living core. Alive. Responsive. Every squeeze, however light and gentle, answered with an automatic throb or twitch. Endlessly fascinating. She edges closer, a slow but steady approach designed to intrigue and torment. She can hear his breathing – a little shallower and faster than usual – feel the thinly-disguised tension in the rest of his body. He can feign nonchalance and relaxation as much as he likes, but Grace can feel the indisputable truth of what the wicked combination of her promise and proximity does to him… and that, too, is fascinating. The unexpected power she has over him, this strong-willed, stubborn man who for so long seemed absolutely unattainable, far beyond her reach.

A darting flicker of her tongue is all it takes to make his stomach muscles visibly contract as he inhales sharply. She wonders how it feels for him, if anything in her own experience is directly comparable. Wonders how tightly-strung his self-control is, how little it really would take to completely strip him of the thin veneer of gentility that masks the darker, wilder side of his nature. Only a fool would imagine that the little Boyd has mellowed with age has softened him, made him somehow less dangerous than he used to be, and Grace is very definitely no fool.

She takes her time, though, alternately advancing and retreating, almost giving him what he wants, then drawing back, letting him mutter and curse all he wants. He’ll never beg, she knows that, but she can push him a heartbeat away from it. Push him to the point where he almost – _almost_ – breaks. She’s good at it, too, repeatedly taking him right up to the invisible line and then drawing him back before he snaps, and that, she knows, is the real promise she made him, what Boyd’s ever-greedy for – not _what_ she does, but _how_ she does it. The contrary, complex psychology of the man laid bare in one truth – the only things that ever really interest him are those that challenge him, test him, threaten him, or have a half a chance of mastering him.

If only she’d fully understood that sooner…

“Grace…” A raw entreaty, as hoarse and as close to desperate as she’s ever heard him.

It’s not easy to sound utterly indifferent, but she gives it a damn good try. “Boyd.”

“Jesus, woman… What the hell are you trying to do to me?”

She smirks to herself in the darkness, grazes his sensitive flesh lightly with her teeth, then replies, “Guess.”

His hips strain upwards towards her, attempting to force more contact. “Fuck…”

“That, too,” she assures him, “but not just yet.”

The noise Boyd makes in response is somewhere between a disparaging snort and a moan. It’s followed by a strained, “I swear, Grace, one day…”

“Yes?” she inquires, and finally makes her move, pouncing on him, taking him deep into her mouth, gratified by the choked-off roar that her action provokes. It doesn’t surprise her in the least when his fingers rake hard through her hair and establish a grip that’s firm, but perfectly-judged – rough enough to be exciting, not forceful enough to be painful or in the least bit intimidating. Like for like – not the _what_ , but the _how_.

She’s tempted to finish him, to perfectly demonstrate that any foolish fantasies he may currently be entertaining about male dominance are exactly that – pure fantasy – but it doesn’t suit her purpose, not tonight. Not when every nerve in her body seems to be impatiently tingling, not with the restless urgency of the need aching between her thighs and low in her belly. She increases the speed and focus of her attack, though, using lips and teeth and tongue to push him closer and closer to the peak, relying on experience alone to gauge the exact moment to stop, to pull away and leave him bereft. When she does, it’s to an indignant, frustrated storm of protest, a barrage of inventive curses, and an impressive blur of movement that finds her suddenly – if not completely unexpectedly – pinned beneath him.

The ease and delicacy of earlier are gone. He’s breathing heavily, his breath hot and moist against her skin as he seeks her breasts, and where Grace grapples him his back’s slick with sweat. Now he smells not only of soap and sandalwood, but of sex and musk, too, a potent combined scent that does nothing to temper her ferocious need to open herself to him, to feel him moving over her, around her, inside her. It’s her turn to grab fistfuls of hair, to swear and urge, to pant and writhe and undulate. To enjoy it all without guilt or inhibition. She’s not aware of parting her thighs, not aware of Boyd shifting position, not until she feels the heat and hardness of him pressing against her, and then she snatches roughly at his bare shoulders, fingernails biting into his flesh. He thrusts against her, not yet inside her, half-teasing, half-assessing, and Grace all-but shouts, it feels so damn good.

He doesn’t wait any longer. Doesn’t waste time asking the redundant question. Doesn’t need to. Another shift of his weight, and a surge of his hips is all it takes for her body to offer willing surrender. The hungry ache inside her changes character, becomes more imperative. The deep, dragging friction of the first few thrusts makes her pull him even closer, makes her try to wrap herself around him entirely. If this is possession, then God, she wants to be possessed. Desperately. Too much teasing, too much thinking. All of it disappearing in the rutting, animal heat of _now_.

Now. That’s all there is. Just _now_.

And _now_ works its magic on her, letting her exist in a crazy, simultaneous mix of tension and relaxation, letting her lose herself in the darkness and the heat until there’s nothing but the hunger and the pleasure, and the primitive need to take and _be_ taken.

Maybe she tells him to go harder, faster; maybe she doesn’t. Grace doesn’t know or care. Maybe she tries to meet his solid thrusts with quick, desperate jerks of her hips, maybe she doesn’t. It’s definitely her who instigates a swift change of position, wildly impatient in the few seconds it takes Boyd to settle behind her again and find the right angle to drive back into her. She arches, she reaches behind her and finds his hip, grips him hard as she pushes her hips back against him, frantic to feel him as deep inside her as he can be. She moans, she whimpers, she urges and pleads and demands, high on adrenaline and the forthcoming rush of endorphins. She’s young again, free of the worries and insecurities that have so often plagued her. She’s the woman she’s always been and so much more, and nothing’s as real as the deep, masculine growl close to her ear, the strong hand holding onto her thigh, the heat and masculinity of him as he hits that elusive sweet spot with every vigorous thrust.

Boyd changes tempo, each heavy stroke suddenly short and fast, and for Grace there’s no steady, gradual build-up, no frustrating moments of _almost_ , the apex is just suddenly there, close enough to greedily seize and scale within just a few taut, shuddering seconds. She hits the peak before him, her internal muscles going into delicious spasm, the intense rush of sensation eclipsing everything else. It must be enough to push him over the edge after her, however, because she’s vaguely aware of the way he roars as he slams into her, the way his body goes absolutely rigid. Only very vaguely, though, as she pants and shivers her way through a steady downward spiral of relaxation that leaves her feeling warm, satisfied and thoroughly lethargic.

“Fuck,” Boyd mutters again, quieter but even more vehement than before. “Jesus…”

Nothing can shatter her tranquillity. She thinks he collapses behind her, their bodies separating then joining in a very different way as an arm curves around her waist again. An odd touch of _deja vu_ doesn’t disturb her sleepy serenity much. Only Boyd’s low voice eventually does that as he asks, “You okay?”

Silly man. Does he really think that she wouldn’t – couldn’t - be?

She makes an effort to turn her head a fraction. It’s not enough – she still can’t see him. Doesn’t matter. “More than.”

“Good.” There’s a hint of complacency in his tone, one she’s prepared to forgive. The ticklish prickle of his short beard against her shoulder as he nuzzles against her makes her smile fondly despite her sleepiness. Sated, he’s always affectionate and gently clumsy, and she never fails to find it endearing. His lips trace a delicate line of soft kisses towards her neck and she thinks she sighs in quiet appreciation. For a few moments he’s still and silent, then he says, “Grace…?”

She’s really starting to drift now. It’s a huge effort to respond, “Mm…?”

There’s an unusual, tentative note in his voice. “I’m really not a hearts-and-flowers kind of guy, but you know I – ”

…But Grace doesn’t hear the end of the sentence. She’s lying stretched on a pristine white beach somewhere, the afternoon sun warm on her skin, the only noise the sound of surf breaking gently on the soft sand. She’s comfortable, relaxed, and very, very happy. It’s just him, her, and the wonderful, mysteriously idyllic setting. What else in the world could be more important?

_\- the end -_


End file.
